A Montana CSI Foresees Her Death
by MagpieDreamer
Summary: DL: Lindsay discovers the joys of head wounds, concussions, unending naeusea, claustrophobia and panic attacks. Ah, the life of a CSI...
1. Chapter 1

**A Montana CSI Foresees Her Death**

**Chapter One**

AN: Been playing with this idea for a while now, (actually, since 'AMan A Mile' waaaaay pack in early season one,) but it eventually mutatated into this. Stick with me - longer chapter coming. Anyone who's currently feverishly studying for their English higher prelim exam -twitch twitch- will know the reference of the title, more references to which will be in later chapters. First person to guess gets invisible brownie point! Enoy!

Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, not making any money, yadda, yadda, yadda.

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The light was grey and cold. Lindsay shuddered and looked around her at the dead looking corridor. The air was still and stale – no one had been breathing in here, moving in here, _living_ in here for too long. Places were always like this right after someone died there, particularly if they weren't found for a while. She wasn't much for 'vibes' and such, but death always left a little something unpleasant behind it in the atmosphere of a space.

Odd that something so terrible could happen in one of the few places she had ever felt properly safe – and that she still felt safe afterwards.

The gun man had come in off the street and started shooting. He'd killed two civilians and wounded five officers, then he'd disappeared again. No one knew who he was or why he'd done it, but they'd work it out, soon enough. They always did. That easy certainty was perhaps why she felt so secure.

Still, this corridor was giving her the creeps. That stillness, the dust hanging in the air in long, lazy strands, (the blood spatter on the walls). She began to hum quietly to herself, if only to get the air moving, the song that Danny had been shoe-shuffling to that morning in the lab, before the shooting started. She swabbed the spatter, storing it away for DNA to pull apart later, spotted a hair stuck to a window sill via a blood spot, and tweezered it away.

Then she frowned, because there shouldn't have been this much blood spatter here.

Where was the body?

Lindsay picked up her kit and began trawling along the corridor. There weren't exactly many places a body could be concealed here. A couple of storage closets but that was it.

Curious, Lindsay opened the first one she came to and peeked inside, but all looked normal. Defying herself, she flung the door wide open, letting the light of day penetrate it's darkest shadows, and, sure enough, the interior was undisturbed, full only of various lab tech paraphernalia.

She closed the closet and set off to investigate the second. This whole thing was just kind of ridiculous. Where the hell did you put a body in all this mess – unless whoever it was had still been alive and the paramedics had wheeled them out. Which made more sense.

Lindsay whacked her forehead in self-deprecating irritation. Why did the most obvious solution to such dilemmas always present itself to her last?

She paused in front of the second closet for a second, then, just to reassure herself, threw that door wide too.

The stench of blood hit her full in the face, as the sight of a very dead, blood-drenched cop confronted her. Lindsay squeezed her eyes closed and backed off, choking on the smell, heavy copper wafting across the space between her and the body.

Gathering herself, she swallowed back her revulsion and followed her training, forcing herself to step inside the closet and check to see if the man in question was still breathing.

She'd barely set one foot into the shadows when something caught her shins and knocked her flying. She skidded into the blood pool, hands first, felt something heavy connect with her head, shrieked in fright and pain and collapsed, with only the passing memory of the slamming of the closet door as her assailant fled.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Montana CSI Foresees Her Death**

**Chapter Two**

AN: Alright, folks, here we go! Second chapter! It's longer than the last, but I have exams all next week (wish me luck, people, I'm gonna need it) so there wont be any more until at least next weekend (that's assuming my brain hasn't imploded by then, of course). So anyway, still no Danny, but hang in there, he's gonna turn up soon, promise! ;) Enjoy, make it last, and leave me lots of reviews!

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It was the smell that woke her up. It seeped into every pore, into every fibre of her clothes, soaked into her skin as surely as the blood was soaking into her jacket. Lindsay struggled to sit up, feeling something slimy, sticky, tacky and thick, like syrup beneath her hands, the world pitched beneath her, the floor rebelling against her senses. She coughed, gagged, and was sick, tasting sulphur and mucus and breakfast all over again.

She couldn't see a thing. The world was a dark, dizzying, baffling blank, and her head was pounding, her sinuses tightening. Memories half grasped fought for her attention, but she was sick again, and had no time to pay them any heed. Placing one hand in front of the other, she crawled away from the syrupy spots until she came into contact with a wall and… yes, her kit. A flash light. There was a flash light in her kit. She needed to see – to work out – to understand – to get out of wherever the hell she was.

But the catch seemed stiffer than she was used to and it was difficult, fumbling blindly, and she wasn't sure if the room was moving or if that was just her and – oh _God_ her head…

Feeling around inside her kit, she found card, paper, metal, something shard, plastic box, glass bottle, glass bottle, scissors, pen, pen, pen, latex gloves, cue tips, match box – flash light, cool and familiar beneath her finger tips.

Shuddering with relief, Lindsay lay down, resting her head on the kit, curling herself tightly around her flash light. A cold, numbing fear was climbing into her synapses and telling her to panic, but she ignored it.

With shaky hands, she found the switch on her torch and flicked it on, shutting her eyes against the sudden brilliant flash of light, then peeling them open again, to look at the illuminated strip of darkness before her. Shelves, wall, ceiling, blood pool – supply closet.

Dead guy.

Door.

Lindsay clamped her mouth shut to prevent a sob of pain-induced hysteria escaping her throat and flicked the flash light off. She could do this. There was the door. She needed to get up, get to the door, get out and call Mac. There was a dangerous perp lose in the building and if that head ache was telling her anything it was that she needed a medic.

Turning the torch back on, she pressed it between her teethe, rolled onto all fours, and, realising that attaining any kind of vertical position wasn't going to be possible, settled for crawling across the floor to where the door handle awaited her.

Except that once she had managed to fastened her fingers around it, it refused to open.

Lindsay let out a low moan and gave the door as much of a shake as she could manage, then curled up beneath it and gave in to the urge to sob, loudly. Pain crammed thick and fast into her skull and blank-faced panic really was beginning to set in. The walls felt too close, the air too tight, the smell of blood reeked in all directions, made her gag again and begin to choke on her own hysteria. Small spaces. She _hated_ small spaces. Bad memories.

But her more practically minded self promptly chose this moment to reassert itself.

"Stop it!" She ordered herself, through copper and tears and the horrible realisation that not all of the blood in her hair belonged to the dead guy she was in here with. "Shut the hell up and _think_!"

And think she determined to do.

"Cell phone," she muttered, crawling back to her kit and making herself stay sitting this time, (_don't go to sleep, don't go to sleep, don't go to sleep._)

Turning the torch off again (she had no wish to see where she was) she began trying to methodically empty her pockets. Tissue. Protein bar. Chewed biro. Keys. Paper weight. Cell phone.

Shutting her eyes to flick the thing open, Lindsay forced herself to concentrate, and didn't contemplate what would happen if she couldn't get any reception.

Her cell phone lit up as she switched it on, filling the immediate space with an eerie greenish glow and penetrating her shuttered eyelids. Lindsay opened one and looked on through a haze of nausea and pain and creeping exhaustion as a message flashed up telling her that she had eleven missed calls – one from BOSS, one from FLACK, two from S.B., one from S.H., and six from T.J. (That Jerk). How long had she been unconscious?

_Gotta stay focused. Gotta stay focused._ Reception, reception – yes! Three bars. Not a lot, but enough.

Mac. She had to call Mac. He'd get her out of this – and he'd know what to do about the perp. She keyed in BOSS and waited as she listened to it dial, then ring, and ring and – where _was_ he?

His phone was switched off. Must be. He always switched it off when he was working on something important in the lab.

Struggling not be begin to despair, Lindsay took a deep breath and tried to gather her swirling thoughts back to her. Next in the line of practical people who could save her ass?

Stella.

Stella, the toughest woman she knew and most definitely someone she wished was with her right now.

S.B. God, just looking at her cell phone screen was beginning to make her head ache worse. She moaned, softly, but stole herself and placed the cell phone to her ear, listening intently – one ring, two rings, three rings –

Click.

"Hello?"

"Stella!" Lindsay involuntarily began to shake again, desperate gasps of relief wracking her body.

"Lindsay?" Stella's voice was tinny and crackly but very real, "where the hell are you? I called you a half hour ago – Lindsay? Lindsay, what's wrong?"

Lindsay hitched in a deep breath and placed her head between her knees to ward off a wave of dizziness, "Stella, you have to help me – Oh, God, my head, I can't – I can't breathe, it's so dark in here…" she trailed off and began to shudder, desperately trying to fight off the panic.

"Lindsay," Stella was firm, "_tell me where you are_."

"Supply closet," Lindsay replied, "I can't get out. Someone hit me – my head, I… I can't… I can't keep things straight – my head keeps… the perp, the perp got away, I didn't see him."

"We caught him," Stella told her, "he was still in the building, he tried to make a run for it and we caught him. Lindsay, what floor are you on? Can you remember?"

"I…" Lindsay closed her eyes, tears beginning to force their way out, "I can't breathe, I can't see, I can't… Oh God…"

"Lindsay!" Stella shouted at her down the phone, "Lindsay, _focus_! Which floor?"

"I don't remember," Lindsay moaned, "he hit me on the head and I don't remember… oh God, there's blood everywhere…"

"Blood?" Stella sounded as if she were moving, "who's blood, Lindsay?"  
Lindsay couldn't answer. Her whole body was beginning to shake, her hands, her legs, her back. She couldn't seem to get enough oxygen into her lungs, even as she struggled hard to drag more in, as she coughed and began to choke and was sure she was going to vomit again.

"Lindsay, stay with me here!" Stella ordered, "we're coming to get you. Are you awake? Can you hear me? Lindsay, try to remember what floor you're on!"

Lindsay only managed to throw up again.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Montana CSI Foresees Her Death**

**Chapter Three**

"She's severely claustrophobic," Mac told Stella, grimly, "it's in her personnel file. Something to do with early childhood trauma. Add that to the head injury, and she's probably having a panic attack."

"Great," Stella rubbed her temples. Listening to her distraught, quite possibly critically wounded colleague sobbing in terror down the phone was far from being the highlight of what was already a pretty crappy day.

"Can I talk to her?" Mac held out his hand for the cell phone.

"Knock yourself out," Stella had long since stopped trying to get any sense out of Lindsay. The woman seemed to have been reduced to a choking, sobbing, hysterical mess, who could only beg to be allowed out of wherever the hell she was. They already had people on every floor searching closets, air vents, smaller rooms and anywhere that could be converted into a small dark space big enough to house a hysterical CSI with a severe concussion, but they weren't turning up anything.

"Lindsay?" Mac addressed his younger colleague, "Lindsay, can you hear me? It's Mac."

"Mac?" Lindsay sounded far from her usual self. Her voice was hoarse and shaky. It also sounded oddly drained, tired, too full of pain and panic to feel much anymore.

"Yeah," Mac said, "you hang in there. We've got a lot of people searching for you. You'll be out of there soon, okay?"

"My head…" Lindsay definitely wasn't listening to him.

"I know," Mac replied, "I know. Hey, you have any useless trivia for me?"

"Huh?"

"You sound nervous."

That elicited a gasp that could have been a sob or a laugh. "Did you know that roughly 6.3 million adult Americans suffer from some kind of specific phobia? That's one in every forty three people. But they think there are probably a lot more – they just haven't been diagnosed."

"No, I didn't know that," Mac replied, "That's interesting. What else do you know?"

"You're trying to distract me," her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Can't fool you."

"I don't know much else," Lindsay sounded lost. Her breathing was hitched and kept catching as she was torn between crying and hyperventilation.

"That's okay. You know any songs?"

"I can't think…"

"Try to."

There was a pause, then, "_your love is better than ice cream, better than anything else that I've tried… and your love is better than ice cream,  
everyone here knows how to fight_…" she trailed off. The words were mumbled and barely audible, but at least she was thinking about something other than the small space she was in.

"Keep going," Mac encouraged.

"My head…"

"Think about the song," Mac told her, firmly.

Lindsay drew several long, shuddering breaths, "_it's a long way down, it's a long way down, it's a long way down to the place where we started from_."

"Come on, keep it up," Mac was walking up and down, Stella watching him.

"Oh God," Lindsay moaned.

"Lindsay…"

"My cell phone," Lindsay gasped, "the battery's about to go."

"That doesn't matter," Mac replied, "we're going to find you, Lindsay, we're going to find you soon. Just keep singing, can you do that? Keep singing, and do _not _fall asleep, do you understand?"

"I know," Lindsay answered, her voice muffled, "_your love is better than chocolate_…"

With a buzz of static and a click, the line went dead.


	4. Chapter 4

**A Montana CSI Foresees Her Death**

**Chapter Four**

Lindsay hurled her dead cell phone against the opposite wall, and began to sob again.

She was not a particularly weepy person, but, it seemed to her, that the whack to the back of her head had knocked all those tears loose, and now she couldn't stop. She thought about how much fluid she was losing through tears alone, and then of the blood she could still vaguely feel, in a far, lost, empty kind of way, oozing through her hair. Dehydration could kill a person in three days. How long had she been in here, anyway? It was all about the threes – three minutes without oxygen, three days without water, three weeks without food.

Not that she was hungry. In fact, she was feeling progressively nauseous. It wasn't just the head wound, because she was beginning to be able to tell the various different types of vomit-urges apart. A sort of wavy, crash on crash feeling of sickness was the head wound, coming at fairly regular intervals now, perhaps every five minutes, though it was hard to tell. The constant, aching throb of nausea, resting in the back of her throat, that was caused by the smell.

The blood, hanging heavy in the air, her own sweat and body heat, the dead man as his cells began to break down, even now – and the vomit she had already chucked up in pools all over the other side of the closet (she'd crawled away and switched the torch off again.)

Mac had told her to sing. She couldn't sing – God knew, she couldn't sing – but some non-fear, non-pain focused part of her could just about still identify the sense in the idea. Give her something to keep her awake, and keep a noise up to draw attention to herself for the people looking for her – if they actually were looking for her. Something was beginning to gnaw away at her sanity, telling her that this was all there was, the black, and the pain, and sickness, and the smell. That paranoid six month baby that screamed whenever it felt even the slightest twinge of pain because it couldn't understand that this new, less pleasant state of being was not going to be permanent.

But her mind was a clawing, boiling blank, through which sludge she could drag no words, let alone a recognisable tune. The only thing that was bubbling up, in sticky, useless coughs and gags from the very pits of her mind, was the poem she'd had to learn for her English class her last year in high school.

_I know that I shall meet my fate,_  
_Somewhere among the clouds above;  
Those that I fight I do not hate,  
Those that I guard I do not love;_

Lindsay moaned softly and batted the wispy, useless phrases away. She didn't even_ like_ Yeats, hadn't even been able to draw him fully to mind when she most needed him (during her English exam) – but here he was, knocked loose, with all those tears, from the back of her mind. Oh, those panic attacks… she was still lucid enough to recognise one when it occurred, but everything was so freaking mixed up… she couldn't tell what was claustrophobia, what was hyperventilation, what was pain, what was concussion, what was just plain old nausea and what was panic grabbing her soul and mugging it down the back of a dark ally.

"Bones, sinking like stones," she mumbled, dredging up the song that had woken her up on her radio alarm lock that morning, "we live in a beautiful world, yeah we do, _yeah we do_…" the tune took a few stuttering moments to launch itself from her throat, like a half dead baby bird staggering from it's shell, too exhausted to avoid the clutches of a predator waiting for it to do just that.

"All that we fought for_, all the places we've gone, all of us are done for_," Lindsay had to stop and cough, rocking slowly, though that might just have been the room….

_Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,  
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,  
A lonely impulse of delight,  
_

_Drove to this tumult in the clouds;_

Yeats whispered spitefully into her ear and she flinched away. Mr Sparton, her teacher, had ordered them all think analyse this particular poem to a stick end – _what is Yeats saying_? Here is someone who fights because he enjoys it – is this anymore shocking than any other reason? Does it matter if the end result (death) is the same?

She shuddered. Mr Sparton was the kind who spat out his 'S's with enough vehemence to shower the people in the front row with saliva every time he got worked up – and he was always worked up.

God, got to keep singing, "I can see clearly now the rain has gone," she cleared her throat and forced out the words, "_I can see all obstacles in my way… _gone_… gone are the dark clouds that h-had me blind – it's gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny day_…"

The dark seemed to be swallowing her words. If she shut her eyes, she couldn't tell the difference. Shouldn't it be easier without being able to see the walls? But it wasn't the small space that bothered her, not really. It was that there was just _no way out_.

_Open fields,_ she told herself, firmly, _big, open fields and a sunny day and a city in the distance and… and… a garden party, with everyone there…Everyone from Montana, and my dogs, and the hamster who died when I was twelve, and Mac and Stella and Hawkes, and that nice man from the sandwich place across the street, too… and Flack… and Danny…_

"_I think I can make it now the pain has gone, and…_ and… _all of the bad f-feelings have d-d-disappeared_," she shivered, "_Here is the rainbow I've been praying for… It's gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny day…_"

The almighty thud that followed seemed oddly detached from her – until, several seconds later, she realised it had been her, sliding sideways and hitting the floor. She moaned through closed eyes and tried to find her arms in the dark, but couldn't make them work.

A second thud. Then another.

But surely, she was already on the floor?

"Lindsay? _Lindsay_, you in there? _Lindsay_!"

Suddenly the dark righted itself. Lindsay was up and scrabbling for her torch fast enough to make her want to be sick again. "Danny!"

"_Lindsay_!" The door thudded again, "Oh, shit, Lindsay, you scared the _hell_ outta me!"

"Danny!" Lindsay gave up on the torch and scrambled blindly for his voice, sure enough finding the door in front of her, "Danny, don't leave me!"

"It's okay," Danny was barely an inch away from her, through the door, with the light she couldn't see, "it's okay, Lindsay, I'm right here, you're gonna be okay, you understand? Keep talking to me."

"Oh, God…" Lindsay struggled to get herself under control, but the movement was making her feel ill again… she turned aside just in time to be sick.

"Lindsay?" Evidently, Danny heard her, "Lindsay, you okay?"

Lindsay shuddered in disgust, "I… I can't stop being sick," she managed.

Danny swore – it should have been under his breath, but she heard it anyway – they both knew perfectly well that a head wound accompanied by vomiting did not spell good things for the afflicted. "Lindsay, hang in there, I will be _right_ back, you understand?"

"No!" A wave of panic hit Lindsay harder than the nausea, "Danny, _please_! You can't – I can't – _Danny_!" She began to sob again, great, heaving, hysterical cries of terror. Her fists connected with the door before she was even really aware of what she was doing, channelling all the frustration and pain and absolute panic into the blows.

"Lindsay! Lindsay, for God's sake calm down!" Danny ordered, though his words had little effect, "you're gonna hurt yourself!

Lindsay collapsed against the door, still sobbing.

"Lindsay, if you want out of there, I _have_ to get help, okay? The lock on that door is _tough_, I'm not getting it open by myself _any time soon_, do you understand? This will take me _thirty seconds_ – the _whole floor_ is crawling with people looking for you," Danny spoke as calmly and clearly as he could considering the severely upsetting nature of what he was listening to. Having someone stripped back to their core, inner, screaming panic-stricken child like that was not a pleasant thing to witness, and, he suspected, an even less pleasant thing to actually experience. "You listening to me, Lindsay?"

Lindsay drew a deep breath. The black was boiling again, the air hot and suffocating. She gagged, but wasn't sick. She rested her forehead on the door, "I'm listening," she whispered.

"Lindsay?"

"I heard!" She shouted, and would have whacked her head off the door if she hadn't been fairly sure this would have made the pain currently clawing at her mind even worse.

"Good," Danny replied, "okay, I'm going now, count to a hundred nice and slow, and I'll be back, alright?"

"Yes," Lindsay sank her hands into the floor and ran a finger over the seem where door met lino. No gap. Nothing. "Danny?"

"Yeah?"

"Go! Go! _Get me out of here_!"

"I'm going!"

Danny's footsteps racing away, heavy and hard.

Lindsay curled herself into a ball, and wondered why the smell of blood in the air was beginning to play in her mouth.


	5. Chapter 5

**A Montana CSI Foresees Her Death  
****Chapter Five**

AN: It's been a long time since I last updated, and, I have to warn you, it'll most likely be a long time before I update again. I'm currently mired in Exam Hell, and will be for the next nine weeks or so until my exams are over. I have approximately two hours a day with my computer right now, and, with all the other stuff I need to do on it (check email, keep up my blog and website, visit other people's, catch up on missed radio programs, login with friends on various message boards, etc) there isn't much time to keep my fanfiction up to date. But we'll get there. Bare with me.

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Danny was already on his cell to Stella as he rounded the corner at the end of the corridor in which Lindsay was secreted. "Stel! I found her!"

"Where?"

"Forth floor. She's stuck in a supply closet."

"Is she okay?"

"Well, she's awake but… uh… not sounding too calm."

"Not surprising. Mac says she's claustrophobic – it's in her personnel file."

"Claustrophobic? Fucking hell."

"Tell me about it. Okay, we're coming up."

Danny flagged down two uniforms as he hung up, "down here!"

They returned to the closet as fast as they could, and Danny hammered on the door, "Lindsay? You still awake?"

"I'm here," Lindsay sounded several shades of grey, her voice muffled and full of shuddering, gasping, panic stricken tears, but definitely awake.

"Okay, Montana, stick with us, this wont take long," Danny assured her.

"Get the hell on with it then!"  
Danny managed a shaky grin at the officers beside him, "she can't be_ that_ screwed up."

"I _said_, get on with it!" Lindsay's muffled anger carried only a hint of desperation through the door.

Stella, Mac and a medic arrived as the two uniforms and Danny set about forcing the lock on the door.

"Hasn't anyone got a key to this thing?" Danny demanded, (Lindsay's whimpers were becoming audible again).

"The janitors have it, but even if it wouldn't take ten minutes for them to find it, I doubt it would do much good," Mac told him, already examining the lock, "it's not the lock that's the problem here. The handle's been jammed. Look at this – whoever slammed it shut did it with enough force to jerk the whole thing loose. I don't think we're getting Lindsay out of there through any conventional method I know of."

"Then _what_?" Danny asked, running a hand through his hair.

"How fast you think a couple of guys would have to be going to get straight through the wood without hurting themselves?" Stella asked, sounding entirely serious.

"Let's not do anything stupid," Mac held up a hand, as Danny looked about ready to go with Stella's suggestion.

"Stupid?" Danny's eyebrows shot up, "can you hear her in there? She's going _nuts_!"

"All the more reason to think about this _logically_," Mac replied, firmly, "shall we take a closer look at this handle? There might be a way of knocking it out."

Stella yanked off a shoe, "stand back boys."

"Stella, what-"

Stella held up a hand to silence Mac as she carefully pressed the shoe to the handle, squinted, put the shoe back on her foot, and took aim, "Lindsay, get back from the door!"

Lindsay's voice was muffled, "I can't – I can't move! The evidence… I'm gonna… gonna mess it up if I move it's already – Oh God, it's already everywhere…"

"Lindsay," Danny knocked on the door, "Lindsay, get back from the door, you hear me? We're getting you out of there."

Stella backed up onto one foot, lifting the other straight out ahead of her, "on three – three!"

The door handle juddered, crunched and buckled inward as Stella placed all her not inconsiderable force behind one very precise kick.

The door slid open.

And, with a shriek, Lindsay tumbled out.


	6. Chapter 6

**A Montana CSI Foresees Her Death**

**Chapter Six**

AN: Okay, folks, as promised - a new chapter, short and... okay, probably not sweet. I'm on a tight schedual, so be prepaired to sit tight before a nother capter turns up, but bare with me - we're getting there. Leave reviews!

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Lindsay crashed straight into Danny's arms – and she was not a pretty picture. The front right quarter of her hair was matted with blood, which had dripped out of her hairline and down her face. It was smeared up one side of her jacket, coated her knees and her hands along with something else – god, he sure hoped that was vomit.

"Okay, okay," Danny collapsed to his knees as Lindsay's legs gave out, "okay, Montana, come on, stay with me here – big strong country girl like yourself ain't gonna give up on me now, huh? Huh? Come on, Montana, head up!"

Lindsay mumbled something, her eyes tight closed against the sudden light; her grip on him loosened alarmingly as she nearly crashed forward. "Medic!" Danny yelled, grabbing Lindsay's lapels and holding her up just in time for her to be sick again.

"Oh my God," Stella shone her flashlight into the open closet, "no wonder she was freaking out."

"Stuck in a closet for four hours with a dead guy," Mac muttered, staring at the body of the man, "God… another one."

"You are one brave lady," Danny let Lindsay rest her head on his shoulder as the medic rushed to their side, "don't ever let me doubt you again, got that?"

"Not brave," Lindsay muttered, her eyes still closed, "In pain."

Danny managed a soft chuckle, "nah, I reckon you got more guts than most."

"Don't talk to me about guts…" Lindsay turned, if it was possible, a shade paler and began to gag.

Danny hastily got out of her way and held her hair back for her – but Lindsay seemed to have lost anything that had once been in her stomach, and only spat out a mouthful of phlegmy-blood.

"She needs to be gotten to a hospital," the medic said, as Lindsay continued to cough.

"_Ya think_?" Danny raised his eyebrows.

"Danny," Mac reprimanded, firmly. He came to crouch next to Lindsay, taking her chin and lifting it to get her to look him in the eye, "Lindsay, you still with us?"

"Mmm…" Lindsay blinked hard. The world swam alarmingly through a haze of vomit and skull-thumping pain.

"Hang in there," Mac squeezed her hand, "okay, we need to get her downstairs."

"I got it," Danny shifted his weight, sliding one arm beneath Lindsay's knees, the other around her shoulders, "you got a good grip on me, Montana?"

"My fingers hurt," Lindsay muttered, her head falling back as Danny lifted her.

Mac grabbed Lindsay's hands and positioned them at Danny's collar, closing the fingers about the cloth, so that Danny could feel her hands, rough and bloody, next to his throat, clinging there – close to his pulse (he wondered vaguely if she could feel how fast it was going), "hold on here, okay Lindsay?" Mac commanded, "Keep a good, tight grip. Don't let go."

Lindsay nodded blindly. Danny felt her fingers contract, and realised that Mac had put them there to give him an early warning should Lindsay begin to slip further into unconsciousness. If she passed out, she would let go. "Hold on, Lindsay," he told her.

Lindsay's eyes were closed, her bleeding head resting on his shoulder, smearing scarlet on his jacket. Her lips twitched with the ghost of giggle, "you almost sound worried about me, Messer." Her voice was hoarse and raspy, full of half-swallowed panic and exhaustion.

"Who, you?" Danny tried not to sound shaky, "nah. Country girl like you oughta be able to handle a little bump on the head, right?"

"Go with her to the hospital," Mac told Danny, "get her clothes, and make sure you collect trace from her head wound, too. We're going to add attempted murder to that son of a bitch's list of charges."

"You got it," Danny nodded, already heading for the end of the corridor with Lindsay in his arms, the paramedic in tow.

Lindsay tightened her grip on Danny's collar, and felt for his pulse, racing by.


	7. Chapter 7

**A Montana CSI Foresees Her Death**

**Chapter Seven**

AN: Alrighty, here we go! My exams are officially over for the year so I can start updating this story again! Whoo! And we are very nearly finished, folks, so enjoy and leave reviews!

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Her grip slackened half way down the stairs. By the time Lindsay's hands had fallen away completely, they were in the offices on the first floor and Danny was trying desperate to get her to respond. Flack, running to his assistance, swept a stack of papers off a desk and allowed his colleague to deposit Lindsay down on it, the paramedic already at her neck feeling for a pulse – "she's not breathing!" – Danny pulling her jacket open as Flack began chest compressions.

And Danny felt the whole world rush away from him in one horrifying second – and Lindsay –

Lindsay felt nothing at all.


	8. Chapter 8

**A Montana CSI Foresees Her Death**

**Chapter Eight**

The head ache – Oh, God, the head ache – sick, sick as a parrot, sick, sick, horrible nausea crushing her insides, pins and needles in her abdomen; she was ten again, crying for a skinned knee, vomiting with mumps – stuck in a tiny space, unable to breath –

The surface rushing up to greet her as she stood perfectly still, suspended, floating in a vacuum of confusion, sickness, pain, bleeding – the smell of blood, and disinfectant and somewhere, something bleeping…

The hospital erupted around her as she opened her eyes, gasping, coughing – "Danny-"

"I'm here, Lindsay, I got you-"

"Could you stand back, sir, please-"

(The ceiling rushed by over head, a blur of neon lights and plastic lino upside down, swimming sharp and stinging behind her eyes)

"I'm not leaving her!"

"Sir, you're in the way-"

"_Danny_ _please_!"

"She screaming my name!"

"It's the concussion, she doesn't know what's happening, sir, please we appreciate-"

"Get out of the God damn way!"

"_DANNY_!"

"I ain't leaving you Linds, I'm right here, I swear-"

"Sir, you have to stand back-"

"Danny, come on man, let them do their job,"

"Oh God, Danny! DANNY! Danny I can't feel my legs! Danny! _DANNY DON'T LEAVE ME_!"

(Her voice was raw, she shrieked and the world dissolved into her own noise as she howled until she wasn't sure what she was howling for any more, only knowing that she had to keep the noise alive – noise for noise's sake, screaming for the first person she had seen when she had opened her eyes, the only name that came to mind.)

"I can't-"

"Danny, come away, come away man, keep it together-"

"**_Danny_**!"

"Oh God, Oh God, Oh God…"

"Deep breath Danny, you heard 'em, she doesn't know what's what – she's callin' 'cause you were all she saw."

"She's screaming my name, Flack!"

"Let the doctors work, Danny."

"_Danny_!"


	9. Chapter 9

**A Montana CSI Foresees Her Death**

**Chapter Nine**

It felt as if she was sinking into the cotton. Starched sheets that rustled when she twitched, the smell of disinfectant again, but no blood, no vomit – just sharp, clean and clear bleach, soap on the sheets. The head ache had dimmed to a gentle contraction, a dull reminder of the trauma she was trying not to recall.

Danny was sitting in a plastic chair at her bedside, reading a newspaper.

She reached out with a finger, forced the joints to work. He was just within touching distance; enough for her to tap his shoulder, and make him jump out of his skin.

"Jesus Christ!"

She smiled at him, weakly. Danny would have glared, but he was too busy feeling overwhelmingly relieved. He dragged his seat closer and rested his elbows on the bed. "Hey," he was gentle.

"Hey," she cleared her throat, feeling odd; a little stiff and very lethargic.

He leaned forward, licked his lips, and thrust his glasses up his nose a little further, knotting his fingers tight, awkward and unsure. Lindsay blinked at him, her gaze a little glassy, but focused clear enough, travelling over his face expectantly. Danny laughed, nervously, and shook his head, "you scared the crap out of me, you know that?"

"Sorry," she murmured. She had a tube up her nose and needle in her arm, a clamp on her finger and a hospital gown on – she looked way too similar to the typical rape victim or homicide survivor he collected evidence from nearly every day. Fortunately he'd been able to swab her head wound while she was unconscious.

"Ah, I'll forgive you," he shrugged and smiled.

Lindsay yawned, still watching him, and tried to lift a hand to rub her eyes, but found her arms suddenly had the same consistency as led weights, "how long was I out?" she mumbled, frowning.

"Couple of hours," Danny shrugged again, "they're uh… they're gonna keep you in for a couple of days, for observation, you know… Good news is your skull seems pretty much to be in one piece. You just have one hell of a concussion."

Lindsay closed her eyes, "you're telling me…"

"Is the light too bright?" Danny asked, suddenly concerned, "'cause we can fix that."

"I'm okay," Lindsay replied, her voice still hoarse. "I'm fine. _I'll be fine_."

Danny rolled his eyes, "sure you will, country girl."

Lindsay smiled, but didn't bother opening her eyes. There was a pause, which she was perfectly content to let hang – whatever pain-meds she was on were making her sleepy. Her thoughts were beginning to drift pleasantly apart at the seams.

Danny, however, was growing nervous again, "so, um… claustrophobic, huh?"

Lindsay opened one eye and looked him up and down, before clearing her throat to deadpan, "was it the hysterical screaming or the clawing at the door until my nails bled that gave me away?"

Danny grinned then grimaced, "sorry."  
Lindsay closed her eyes again, "I'll forgive you."

She might have fallen asleep again – she was never entirely sure. When she opened her eyes once more, Danny was leaning back in his chair, newspaper folded neatly on the floor, cleaning his glasses with a sleeve.

"Danny?"

"Hey," he smiled, as if there'd never been a pause in the conversation.

Lindsay tugged her blanket up further over her shoulders, "how long do I have to stay here?"

"In the hospital?"

"Mm."

Danny looked a little awkward, placing his glasses back onto his nose, deftly shunting them into place with a thumb, "I already told you that, Lindsay."

Lindsay blinked at him in confusion, "You did?"

"Yeah…"

"I…" Lindsay frowned, "I don't remember that…"

"It's probably the meds," Danny told her, sympathetically, "add that to the concussion and your mind's probably not functioning quite like it should be right now."

"Mm," Lindsay sighed and scrunched her eyes shut, trying to recall the details of her conversation with Danny when she had first woken up, but drew only an unsettling blank, "could you tell me again?"

Danny smiled slightly, "sure. They're uh… they're gonna keep you in a couple of days, you know, observation and stuff. Till the meds wear off. And in case you do that whole 'forgetting to breath' thing again."

Lindsay lifted her eyebrows, "what?"

"Yeah, you um…" Danny looked a little sheepish, "kinda stopped breathing for a couple of minutes – back in the lab. The doctors said it was shock or something. Scared the shit out of us. You uh… you should have seen Flack's face." He laughed, the sound distinctly strained

Lindsay closed her eyes, "Oh God…"

"You were okay though," Danny pointed out, unnecessarily.

Lindsay wasn't listening, "Oh, God, he nearly killed me, didn't he?"

Danny scratched the back of his neck, awkwardly. He didn't know what to tell his colleague. Lindsay was sweet and tough and naïve – she'd been an easy mark, at first, and lately he'd been kinda charmed by her. But he didn't know her well enough to be of any comfort.

Lindsay threw an arm up over her eyes and stared into the blank void her flesh provided. She felt ill again.

"You want some water… or something?" Danny asked, quietly.

Lindsay shook her head. Her throat was dry, but she doubted she'd be able to swallow anything.

Danny spread out his palm next to her hand, then, gently, lay his little finger over hers. Lindsay was already drifting back into unconsciousness.


End file.
